Free Midnight Sun by Jo Nesbø

grey, overcast sky above it, and no sign of the reindeer, I looked at the time.
    The wedding. I had never been to a wedding before. What does that say about a thirty-five-year-old bloke? Friendless? Or simply the wrong friends, the sort of friends no one wanted, let alone wanted to marry?
    So yes, I checked my reflection in the bucket of water, brushed my jacket down, tucked the pistol in my waistband at the small of my back, and set off towards KÃ¥sund.

CHAPTER 7
    I’D GOT FAR enough to be able to see the village below me when the church bells started to ring again. I speeded up. It had got colder. Maybe because it was cloudy. Maybe because the summer can come to an end up here quite suddenly.
    There wasn’t a soul in sight, but there were several cars parked on the gravel road in front of the church, and I could hear organ music inside. Did that mean that the bride was on her way to the altar, or was it just part of the warm-up? Like I said, I’d never seen a wedding before. I looked at the parked cars, to see if she was sitting in one of them waiting to make her entrance. I noticed that the number plates all had a Y at the front, to indicate that they were from Finnmark. All apart from one, a big, black station wagon that had no letter before the number. From Oslo.
    I went up the steps to the church and cautiously opened the door. The few pews were full, but I crept in and found a place on the one at the back. The organ music paused, and I looked ahead. I couldn’t see any bridal couple, so at least I was going to catch the whole thing. I could see a number of Sámi jackets in front of me, but not as many as I’d expected to see at a Sámi wedding. On the front pew I could see the backs of two heads I recognised. Knut’s unruly red hair, and Lea’s shimmering black cascade of locks. Hers was partially covered by a veil. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see much, but presumably the bridegroom was sitting up at the front near the altar with his best man, waiting for the bride. There was a bit of murmuring and coughing and crying. There was something rather appealing about such a reserved, sombre congregation that was still so easily moved on behalf of the bridal couple.
    Knut turned round and looked at the gathering. I tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t see me, or at least didn’t return my smile.
    The organ started up again, and the congregation joined in with astonishing gusto. ‘
Nearer, my God, to Thee . . .
’
    Not that I knew much about hymns, but that one struck me as an odd choice for a wedding. And I had never heard it sung so slowly. The congregation stretched out all the vowels to breaking point: ‘
Nearer to Thee, e’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.
’
    After something like five verses I closed my eyes. Possibly out of sheer boredom, but possibly because of the feeling of security from being among a crowd after so many days of watchfulness. Either way: I fell asleep.
    And woke up to the strains of a southern accent.
    I wiped the drool from the corners of my mouth. Perhaps someone had nudged me on my bad shoulder – it was aching, anyway. I rubbed my eyes. Saw little yellow crusts of sleep on my fingertips. I squinted. The man speaking in a southern accent up at the front had glasses and thin, colourless hair, and he was wearing the cassock I had slept under.
    â€˜. . . but he was also someone who had weaknesses,’ he said.
Weaknesses
. ‘The sort we all have. He was a man who was capable of fleeing from confrontation when he had sinned, who lost his bearings and hoped problems would simply vanish if he stayed out of the way long enough. But we all know that we can’t hide from the punishment of the Lord, that He will always find us. But he is also one of Jesus’s lost sheep, one who has strayed from the flock, one whom Jesus Christ wants to rescue and save with his mercy if the sinner prays for the forgiveness